


In Which John is Happy

by thequeergiraffe



Series: The Spaces In-between [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: It's kind of a muddled mix, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Post-slash?, pre-slash?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-30
Updated: 2012-03-30
Packaged: 2017-11-02 18:34:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/372070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequeergiraffe/pseuds/thequeergiraffe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I thought," I say softly, my eyes moving from the gash on his lip to the bob of his Adam's apple and back again, "that I'd never be happy like this again. Not after…"</p><p>(Can be read as a standalone.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which John is Happy

_John:_

We're leaning against a cool brick wall, each of our gasping breaths hanging in front of us and mixing so that I can't tell which puff of mist left my lungs and which left his. His breath is my breath. My breath is his.

At our feet a petty criminal lays quietly, the gentle of sleep of the newly unconscious. I hit him pretty hard, but to be fair: he deserved it. The bloke kind of had it coming. My knuckles are singing a little, a low deep song that began in the soft part of his stomach, but I don't mind. It feels good, even. I haven't done this in so long.

Beside me, Sherlock is texting rapidly. He's got a gash in his lower lip that I'd like to see stitched, even though I know he'll disagree. There's a muddy bootprint on his groin that makes me cringe each time I catch sight of it. But mostly, he's fine. I'm fine. Things are just bloody fine.

Sherlock slips his phone into his pocket and lays his head back against the brick, his eyes falling closed and his chest rising heavily. "All right?" he asks, even though I don't have a single mark on me.

I nod, laugh. "Yeah. You?"

"Very." He sounds pleased, or no- more than pleased. He sounds content. Almost of its own accord, my hand falls over his and I brush my thumb over his scuffed knuckles carefully. I can feel him watching me quizzically, so I turn my head and smile.

"I thought," I say softly, my eyes moving from the gash on his lip to the bob of his Adam's apple and back again, "that I'd never be happy like this again. Not after…"

I don't need to say the rest. He knows. Narrow-eyed, he examines my face, as if my words aren't enough and he needs to see it for himself. Whatever he finds in the lines of my eyes- the crease between my eyebrows, the corners of my mouth- seems to agree with him, and he gives the barest of nods. "And Mary?"

It's such a small question, but it's very nearly too much to swallow. I grapple with it for a moment before answering honestly, gently, "Mary's a good girl. She's been good to me." I know unequivocally that if Mary had been here and heard  _that_  response to  _that_ question, she'd have been on the next train to her mother's in Dorset, and I'd have never seen her again. I'm half-glad she didn't hear it, doesn't know…and half-sorry. The warmth of Sherlock's hand under mine becomes uncomfortable, suddenly, and I draw my hand away, pressing it over my own heart.

"She seems…acceptable," Sherlock concedes grudgingly. He slides his thin, pale hand over the hand on my heart and adds: "But you're still my John."

I don't have anything to say to that. I reach up, brush away a bit of blood trailing from his lip, and nod.  _This is enough_ , I think.  _Let this be enough._

And somehow, for now, it is.


End file.
